Emilia
by seori
Summary: The past will come back to haunt us... always. Oneshot, edited.


**Summary:** The past will come back to haunt us... always.

**Disclaimer:** The Corpse Bride isn't mine. (I wish!)

**Notes:** What goes around, comes around. I hope I've expressed myself as clearly as I wanted to here.

**- Emilia -**

- by seori -

Nature was uncommon where Victor and Victoria lived.

Where they lived, the sun would be chased across the sky by darkness, as relentless as a wave on the sand. The moon would rise, pale and wan, only to be banished by the sun again in the morning. Nature faded to patches of greying weeds between the cobblestones, humanity lost its innocence. The people within the city walls scurried about, dangerously akin to ants, mindless creatures laughing humourlessly, talking pointlessly.

And like this, Victor and Victoria lived, lost within the confines of their lives, ignoring the butterflies that tapped at their windows every morning, passing the fading trees without another glance. It was a life they had promised themselves they would never live – and ended up living anyway. Over time they forgave themselves for thinking so freely, acting so brashly.

Over time, they forgot.

* * *

Midwives were scarce in the slums. It was a little-known but totally logical fact – midwives were scarce in the slums. However... midwives _talked_, and far more than necessary, too. The mere fact that _midwives talked_ drove the woman to the slums, to have her illegitimate child there. It would be born away from the prying eyes of humanity, the gabbling race so imbued in 'progress' they were progressing backwards. It would be born away from _midwives_.

Perhaps if the woman had been braver, the child would have had a mother.

By some unseen hand of drunken miracles, the newborn had been left outside the orphanage. By another unseen hand of miracles, she had cried, and loudly too. It was the sound of her wailing that woke the portly matron and brought her and her whisky bottle to the door. There she found the source of the noise, pink-faced and defenceless.

For five years the child languished in the care of the matron and her fellow orphans, the youngest by some. They would have thin gruel in the morning, a small potato for lunch, and more gruel in the evening, sometimes with gravy on Sundays. The children would be taken for brisk walks around the city two times a week, wide-eyed with wonder and too cowed to wander from the set path.

She saw no point in the walk. The butterflies had long flown to the country in search of the nature that had now been lost in the city, and the elaborate buildings – the noise of the vendors selling their wares – the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones – the forced shouting and laughing of the counterfeit adults – made her feel claustrophobic. She would have rather stayed inside with the 'flu.

Until she found the butterfly.

* * *

It had been a time of grief, and of celebration. Little Tony had passed away of malnutrition in the night, and the child had had a dream; the first she could remember. A long moment was spent in bed trying to recollect it, bits and pieces revealing themselves slowly, flotsam and jetsam on the beach.

The bell broke her thoughts, sent them spinning to the back of her mind. Realising it was Sunday, she put on her best dress and pinafore.

The morning was spent in silence as the undertakers and the matron made the last arrangements for Tony's funeral and burial. He would be interred in the Church Street graveyard, in a shallow grave near the old oak tree, the only place in the city that seemed a true 'home' for the child. No more expenses would be spared for the dead boy than was absolutely necessary.

At last, the afternoon came. The children were organised into two lines, headed by the matron as usual. The child found herself at the very back of the line, beaten again by the scuffle that accompanied their weekly walks.

They headed towards the square, the child trying to keep her dream in her mind as it fluttered desperately, begging to be released. She looked only at the back of Sam's head, blankly following in his steps.

It was then that the butterfly appeared, weak and straggling, much like the one in her dream. It was an iridescent blue, swathed in patches of purple, delicate and ephemeral. It landed in her hair as she stopped to retie her shoelace, resting on her fringe as she carried on, following Sam even as her heart thudded against her ribcage.

As they reached the edge of the square, the butterfly flitted about her head, increasingly desperate to prove something to the child.

"What is it?" She whispered, slowing, hoping no one would notice. "What is it, butterfly?"

It wouldn't answer, only advancing a metre or so, then doubling back when she paused. _Come, come_, it was saying to her, telling her to ignore the fear, push it aside. It was telling her to trust.

She followed.

* * *

Socialising was an art, Victor and Victoria had discovered. Of course, they had embraced the skill fully. They were artisans, adroit and adept at their trade. Maintaining social relationships was a must in the backwards-progressing society they called home, and so they arose to the task, convinced themselves that it was necessary to 'be a valuable part of' society. The couple had forgotten Emily, had forgotten nature, had simply... forgotten.

And yet, for some reason, a nagging feeling at the back of Victor's mind led him to stop at the park.

"Let's take a Sunday stroll, Victoria dear," he suggested, and was met with a smile and a nod.

"If you would like, love."

The path they followed was winding and sinuous, a testament to the genius of the city's architects. They had maximised the walking stones, minimised the greenery. Still, it was more than you could normally find – unless you crossed the bridge, of course. But no one crossed the bridge anymore. They had forgotten too.

Victor's nagging feeling intensified as he looked across the park, watching a small child chase after something – a piece of paper? A ribbon? It was going faster, carried along by the quickening breeze. She was getting closer and closer, only five or so metres away -

And then he realised: _a butterfly. _

Victoria saw it too, and gasped. "The butterflies are back!"

As if on cue, the child stopped as the insect landed on Victor's suit lapel. The three stared at it in surprise, watching it as it fanned its wings, acted like nothing had happened.

The child looked up, into the two faces of adults she knew she had seen before. "I know you," she murmured, "You were from my dream!"

"What a surprising dream it is then," replied the man, crouching to meet her face-to-face. "What is your name, sweet?"

A pause, then –

"Emilia."

- end -


End file.
